Cold Feet

It had been her excuse to the cameras. It had been her excuse to everyone, even to Roy. “I guess I got cold feet,” she’d say, with a smile or an apologetic shrug, depending on the audience. She wasn’t sure what it meant, exactly, but it seemed to be the thing people said when they cancelled a wedding so she had said it.

In her heart, though, she’d laughed bitterly at the irony. Pam always wore socks to bed. Roy had made fun of her for years, but she didn’t care. Some nights, when it was hot enough or he cajoled enough, she would wear nothing else. But she always wore her socks. She had had cold feet for years and years and years.

Maybe that was why she’d wanted to walk on the fire so badly. The lingering chill of hesitation, of fear, of silence- how could they withstand the heat of the embers? She’d walked on hot coals, and come out purified and tempered, like steel. She’d walked on fire, and then she’d walked on water- at least, it felt like a miracle that she had been able to speak.

Pam stood in the water. She looked up at the clouds drifting lazily through the darkened sky and felt the breeze against her face. The air was clear. She’d cleared it with her words. She could still smell the smoke from the fire pit- maybe it was in her clothes and hair, in her skin itself. The fire had burned her skin, and her declaration had left her cheeks rosy with a flush of excitement that she thought might never fade.

The caress of the water against her feet and ankles brought soothing relief.  She was cooling her heels, she realized with a laugh, but she didn't think they would ever fully cool. The sting from the fire had gone, but there was no chill. She kicked her toes through the water with delight.

She wouldn’t wear socks tonight.